A Mind of His Own
by Maldermos
Summary: Robb Stark was fostered at the Dreadfort where he made friends with Domeric Bolton, the son and heir of the Leech Lord. Now nearly a man grown he has returned to Winterfell, changed. Robb is no great swordsman or commander, nor even particularly charming. Rather he is a critical, bookish young man with a lot on his mind. How will he fare in the Game of Thrones? (AU)
1. Chapter 1

"You're overestimating their numbers," Domeric insisted, leaning further across the table as if the gesture would make Jon see his point. "I'm telling you, a thousand well-supplied Northmen worth their salt could hold Moat Cailin for eternity. The Tyrells would have to send their levies home in shame and defeat before they could breach the Neck."

Jon frowned at that and leaned further into the comfortable, high-backed chair he was sitting in. "You forget the Redwyne fleet" was all he said, prompting another heated argument from Domeric.

Robb watched them both from his stool near the fireplace. He had wondered aloud how the North would fare against the Reach, fanned the discussion with a few points of his own before volunteering to tend the fire. Jon and Domeric had taken over from there. He liked to listen to their animated discussions; they gave him new perspectives on old musings. Indeed, discussion and debate were favorite pastimes of the Heir of Winterfell and it was not often that Jon or Domeric were willing to humor him. Few people were, if he was honest with himself. It was as if any in-depth analysis of the North's more than eight thousand years of history had become a thing for the southron Maesters of the Citadel, and they alone, to discuss. When that had happened Robb did not know, but by the time of his own birth there had been few men of Winterfell interested in the history of the land they lived on beyond the odd historical fact such as, say, 'Winterfell was raised by Bran the Builder.' No one cared about the stories of men long dead and gone beyond truths collectively agreed upon such as that.

Brandon the Builder, legendary founder of an eight thousand year old dynasty and their seat, was not remembered for his life, but for the few deeds he had wrought that survived into modern times. If one were to ask most men they would say that Bran did two - perhaps three - great things; he raised Winterfell, he raised the Wall and, most importantly, he fucked some nameless woman and sired the first link in the great chain that was the House Stark.

Robb shook his head, suddenly acutely aware of the sour expression that had crossed his face. He should enjoy his two friends' heated discussion, not think of things that were sure to ruin his mood.

Domeric was leaning as far across the table as he could and was using a number of wooden dice as armies to support his point of view. It was times like these that made Robb forget how quiet Domeric normally was. The Dreadfort Heir had inherited many of his father's traits, from his plain face to his silent disposition, but traces of his mother were clear for anyone to see: his hair was lighter than his father's, a mousey brown instead of dark, and his eyes were a clear hazel as opposed to Lord Roose's pale, white orbs. Domeric lacked the cold cunning Robb had come to associate with Lord Roose over the course of the eight years he had been fostered by the man and his household. He wondered if they would have befriended each other as they had if Domeric had been more like his father. Lord Roose was nothing if not courteous and he had done right by Robb, but he was no father figure to him as Jon Arryn was to his father. The relationship a fosterling was meant to _foster_ would have fallen decidedly short of his father's expectations had it not been for the hand Domeric had extended to him in friendship so long ago.

Robb smiled to himself then, feeling suddenly a pleasant warmth spread from his core to his toes and fingertips. It was hard to believe that he could once again call Winterfell his home. It had hardly been two moons since Lord Roose had put a firm hand on his shoulder, wished him a safe ride to Winterfell and sent him on his way. There had been little fanfare to mark Robb's departure; he had privately bid the people who mattered most to him in the Dreadfort farewell and though he knew he would miss Domeric terribly the Dreadfort Heir had assured him that the hundred leagues between there and Winterfell would mean nothing against their friendship.

"Even _if_ Randyll Tarly takes White Harbor" Robb heard Domeric say with an emphasis on 'if,' "he still has to feed his host. The North will not stand for trespassers. His men will starve."

A rare smile graced Jon's northern features. "But you do admit that the southrons, not we, would be on the offensive?" Domeric, far from being defeated, began to explain how the long marches across the North would affect the imaginary Tyrell host all the while gesticulating wildly at the carefully arranged dice.

Robb had only seen Jon on rare occasions the past eight years, but their friendship had borne the burden amiably and the two half-brothers remained close. Back then Robb's departure left Jon with few children his age to bond with, save Theon Greyjoy who had not been kind to him until then. The two had skirted around each other for some time, but ended up making an uneasy truth that blossomed into a friendship over the years. They seemed an unlikely duo at first glance, but both of them were at the same time welcome and unwelcome at Winterfell, Jon as a baseborn son and Theon as a ward taken in defeat from Balon Greyjoy, self-styled Ninth Iron King of His Name. Robb had never asked either of the two exactly when their 'rivalry' became a friendship, but he could understand why. He himself had felt the bite of homesickness as only a child could feel it and his then growing friendship with Domeric had been a welcome support.

"Where is Theon?" Robb asked Jon over Domeric's explanation of the White Knife's tide and its effect on crossing southrons.

"Talking to Ser Rodrik about something or other," came the low reply, barely audible over Domeric's insistent voice. Jon was still not completely relaxed around the Dreadfort Heir, something Robb had tried and would continue to try and remedy. Jon got the short end of the stick in many things, but not in good and loyal friends if Robb had anything to say about it.

"We're riding out with father tomorrow, are we not?" Robb asked again, throwing a small piece of kindling at Domeric to make him stop talking. The young Bolton shot a dark look at his companion, but thankfully quieted down, sighing as he leaned back into his chair.

"Last I heard, yes," Jon nodded, then fell silent. For a time the only sound between them was the lazy crackling of the fire and Robb felt the weight of the day on his mind. It seemed that the thought had struck the other two as well, and soon they were on their way to their respective chambers.

8

8

It was a good day for riding, if one appreciated such things. Domeric did; the young Bolton seemed to have been born in the saddle as masterfully as he steered his black palfrey through the thick underbrush of the Wolfswood. Jon and Theon rode as men trained in riding do and even Bran - overly excited as he was to be out of Winterfell with his father and his brothers for the first time since arriving from Karhold - did not falter once on the old gelding he rode on. Robb watched Theon and Jon share a quiet jape and hated at once the former for his damnable charisma and the latter for having all the typical Stark traits that Robb lacked. Even Bran wore on his nerves then, far too chipper for the Heir of Winterfell's liking.

Gods how he hated riding. Horses did not take to him as well as they did most others and Robb had come to mirror their distrust. The animals obeyed him, albeit hesitantly, and that was enough for Robb. He would never be a renowned jouster or win a great many races, but that did not bother Robb as much as it once had. The pangs of jealousy he felt were unwarranted, he knew, even unbecoming, but it was one thing to know that and quite another to truly feel it.

The party consisted of himself, his father, Jon, Theon, Domeric and Bran, all accompanied by Rodrik Cassel and half a score of Lord Stark's sworn swords. The group had left through the Hunter's Gate soon after sunrise, chatting amicably amongst themselves. Theon, Jon - and Robb to a lesser degree - had bickered and bantered, with Domeric occasionally offering a perceptive comment. Greyjoy and Snow were warming up to the newest addition to their group, but it was a work in progress. Theon often would lead the talk to women, clearly hoping to bond with Domeric over their extra years relative to Jon and Robb, never knowing that it only served to alienate him to the Dreadfort Heir. It was not easy for Robb to cover for the Bolton's telling silence on the matter.

It was not long after midday when one of the guards, an outrider, came galloping back to the group, making a beeline for Lord Stark with reports of a lone Crow, a man of the Night's Watch, making his way south on the open plains near the edge of the forest. The route made sense to Robb; it was close enough to the Kingsroad that one might follow it, but not so close that the man would risk discovery by the travelers there. indeed, had it not been for his father's excursion into the woods that day there was little chance the man would have been discovered before he reached the Neck. Descriptions of deserters from the Watch were sent south from the Wall, but men were hard to find in the North. To say that it was bad luck for the oathbreaker was an understatement.

Their father called Bran to his side as the group made its way to the Crow's last known location. They traveled at a leisurely pace; the outrider and two other guards had been sent to detain the man already.

"Men of the Night's Watch swear to watch over the realm of men until their death," Robb heard his father explain in that low, calm baritone of his. "That this man travels south without leave makes him a deserter and oathbreaker both. It means his life is forfeit. Do you understand, Bran?"

Bran nodded seriously, of course, but Robb doubted that he truly understood. The younger Stark was a child still and he had not yet experienced death first hand. Their father was an honorable man, a just man Robb knew, but justice was not always just and in Westeros it was bloody more often than not. Eddard Stark nodded approvingly back at his son, but the scene still left Robb feeling uncomfortable, and he was glad to see it when Jon steered his horse up beside his father's and half-brother's. Bran and Jon were not as close as Robb would have liked, but the dark-haired Snow's stoic presence had a calming effect, Robb knew from experience.

"Father?" Bran asked so quietly that Robb that to lean forward to hear him. "Could he not be sent back to the Wall?" He felt a pang of sadness for Bran then. It was good to see tangible proof that the cold climate of Karhold and the Karstarks there had not unduly hardened his younger brother, but as Lord Rickard had undoubtedly told Bran there were things in life that mercy would not solve.

Their father put a gloved hand on his younger son's shoulder and squeezed it reassuringly. "I cannot do that Bran," he said with a slow shake of his head. "There are laws in this land that we must all answer to, lords and kings as well as the smallfolk."

"I understand," was all Bran said in response, but once again Robb doubted his words.

8

The deserter was the perfect example of the slow, but steady decay the Night's Watch had experienced since the time of Aegon's Conquest. Ten thousand swords served the Watch in those days, but no longer. If his uncle Benjen's cautious tales were anything to go by Robb estimated that the Watch could field perhaps a thousand men if every green boy and old man was given a sword to swing. The Watch had become little more than a convenient place that unruly lords and criminals could be exiled to.

The Crow lacked the most of both ears and had more scars than Robb could count on both hands. He looked old, perhaps fifty, yet haunted beyond his years. Lord Stark had tried to speak to the man, but nothing came of it. The only words the deserter would share were panicked warnings about a creeping evil, an unstoppable wickedness descending upon the realm of men from the frozen wastes that were the Lands of Always Winter. More than that he would not share, and perhaps it was for the best; words would not buy him his life.

The beheading was swift and clean. Theon held the wolf-pelt scabbard Ice usually rested in while the Lord Stark passed the sentence and swung the sword. Robb heard Jon advice Bran to look closely while his father fulfilled his duty as the lord of the land. It was sound, if tough, advice and Robb did not miss the conflicted look that crossed his father's face when he saw Bran fight the urge to look away. It was a struggle Robb remembered having himself when he was scarcely older than Bran.

After they had packed away the man's head and buried the body Robb's father came to speak with him.

"This will be your duty someday, Robb," he said seriously while the group mounted back up. "I know Lord Roose did not spare you the realities of crime and punishment, but that does not make a grim duty such as this any easier to come to terms with."

Truly, it had not. Lord Roose had punished lawbreakers with an iron fist, but no amount of executions had hardened Robb as they did most others. Instead he had only become more critical and contemplative in the face of such bloody business as the years passed.

"I will not fail in my duty, father," Robb assured the Stark patriarch as the group started on the trek back to Winterfell.

"I know you won't, Robb."

8

They were hardly an hour into the woods when they came upon the stag. Wyl, one of the younger swords sworn to House Stark, was the first to catch sight of it during his forward scouting. He came riding back in a gallop and led the party to the carcass. He insisted the animal was the biggest he had ever seen of its kind; he had counted near fifty points on its antlers and that was with a large section of the left horn missing. Robb privately doubted that any creature of even the Wolfswood could fell a stag like that, even large packs of wolves would pick their prey with care. A stag was hardly worth the fight, lest it was near their den. When he caught sight of the animal, however, the young Stark immediately regretted his disbelief.

The stag was spread across the forest path, partially disemboweled as it was. From the look of the pool of clotted blood around it Robb guessed it had lain there for perhaps half a day. Long gashes ran down its flanks and a large section of the animal's left antler looked, indeed, as if it had been torn off by force. Domeric, quiet as he had been throughout the morning, dismounted his black palfrey and went to examine the stag up close. He kneeled before the animal and removed a glove to run his hand over its bristling skin.

"Whatever creature killed this animal is one men would kill to hunt," he said under his breath as Robb dismounted his horse and came to join him. "These claw marks are not those of a bear, and they are too wide and deep for a wolf, lest it is a very, very large one." Robb grimaced at the thought. A wolf like that would undoubtedly attract a large pack and roam the Wolfswood for prey. If the creature was as large as Domeric implied it could even grow bold enough to lead its pack against the large flocks of sheep that found grazing land on the plains east of the forest.

"Perhaps it simply has abnormally large paws," Robb ventured quietly, earning himself a deadpan look from his friend, who opened his mouth to retort when he was interrupted by Jon and Theon's shouting.

"My Lord Stark," Jon called from further into the thicket in a formal tone that made Robb scowl. "You'll want to see this, my Lord." The Stark patriarch had never asked that Jon called him anything but 'father,' yet his lady wife and household had not been so lax with that they considered a bastard's due to his sire. Snow had rebelled against it at first, but with some help from the more courteous Theon he had come to accept that unless he was amongst friends, and friends only, he was expected not to be too familiar with his own father. It was a status quo that made Robb more cross than even riding.

His father led the group to Jon and Theon, ordering two men to stay with the horses. It was a short, but treacherous walk down the muddy hill the two misfits of Winterfell had traversed before them, but any curses were quickly stifled at the sight of the duo's discovery: a direwolf, near the size of the stag they had found only minutes before, lay dead at the foot of the hill with the broken off left antler of its prey jutting from its throat. The beast was magnificent, larger than any wolf Robb had ever laid eyes on, but it was not nearly as interesting as the bundle of writhing fur Jon was kneeling beside.

"I had thought it just a freak of its kind," Theon said from his position beside Jon, looking completely disinterested in what he had to know was a nigh impossibility south of the Wall. "Yet Jon tells me that it is a direwolf." Many of the men grumbled disbelievingly, but Lord Stark silenced them with a mere gesture before venturing closer to the fallen beast and kneeling beside Jon. Bran followed his father like a shadow and he was the first to pet the bundles of fur that lay shivering against their dead mother's belly.

"There are five pups, my Lord," Jon said loudly enough for the men to hear him. "Direwolves were not to be found south of the Wall, and now there are five." There was an unspoken question there.

"Where will they go?" Bran asked as he stroked the small forms gently, his voice reverting to the kind tone that had appealed for a deserter's pardon. "Their mother is dead."

"They don't belong here," Ser Rodrik commented, an air of finality about him. Robb's father nodded at that.

"Better a quick death," he said, denying his son for the second time that day. "They won't last without their mother." He rose then and despite Bran pleading for the puppies' lives Theon moved to fulfil the implied command, but before he could take a step Robb put a hand on the Greyjoy's shoulder, shaking his head. The direwolf was the sigil of House Stark, surely something could be done. Before he could voice his concerns, however, Jon spoke.

"Lord Stark," he began, gaining his father's attention. "There are five pups, one for each of the Stark children. The direwolf is the sigil of your House." He paused, but despite looking for it Robb saw no trace of bitterness or jealousy in his eyes. "They were meant to have them."

Robb regretted the envious thoughts he had had of Jon's Stark traits then. As a baseborn child Jon had little and less to look forward to, even as a son of the Warden of the North, yet he had selflessly excluded himself from the count without hesitation. Robb respected Jon, he always had, and those words only strengthened his belief that Jon should bury the thoughts he had of joining the Night's Watch. It was a fool's errand. Robb hardly heard his father acquiesce, nor the stern warning about responsibility he gave to Bran and him. It was only when Theon went to help Jon get the pups back to the horses that he was shaken from his train of thoughts. The rest of the group was already making their way up the hill, Bran with one of the pups now safely tucked into his chest.

"That was a kind thing you did, Jon," Robb said. "You're a good brother, and an honorable man." He had meant to commend him, but Robb did not miss the grimace that crossed his brother's face.

"A good _half-_ brother, aye, and an honorable Snow." Ah, so he did feel some dejection. Robb suppressed the sad smile that tugged at his lips. Jon was a good man, but a man nonetheless.

"You will earn your way, as we all must. Snow or not, you have friends who know your worth." Even with two direwolf puppies in his arms Theon still clasped Jon's forearm and smiled that warm, roguish smile of his. "No direwolf will change that."

"But it certainly won't hurt your chances," Domeric said suddenly from behind Robb, startling the young Stark. He turned to berate his friend, but instead found himself staring into a pair of blood red eyes. He opened his mouth to question Domeric, but the runt licked his face before he could.

He would have to thank Domeric for this later.

White as Snow, indeed.


	2. Chapter 2

A week's time passed by in a flurry of activity as the Stark children weaned and trained their direwolf puppies under the watchful eye of their father. The pups had been received with glee by all of Robb's siblings, and even Sansa spoke in their defense when their mother questioned the wisdom of her lord husband's decision to let their children keep soon-to-be man-sized predators for pets. There had been real worry in her eyes, but Robb had seen a glint of understanding. Five direwolves - she did not count Ghost, as Jon had called his he-wolf - one for each of the Stark children. It would be a strong symbol in the North. Robb was tempted to agree with her concerns when he first saw Rickon tussle with Shaggydog, as he had called the black he-wolf to his family's confusion, but he could not deny the bond between his youngest brother and his wolf. All the Stark children grew close to their furry charge quickly, himself included, but Rickon took to the direwolves faster and better than any of them. For his own part Robb had not named his smoke grey friend. Arya had quickly decided on Nymeria for her own wolf, Sansa on Lady and Bran on Summer, but the oldest of the Stark children was conflicted. He briefly considered Grey Wind, but decided against it after mentioning the name to Theon who teasingly compared the dramatic name to the nicknames of the old Iron Kings of House Hoare. Thus, for the moment, 'you' had to do.

It had been eight days since they found the direwolves when Robb decided to speak with Jon about his plan to swear himself to the Night's Watch. He knew he should have gone sooner, but his mood had been gloomy since Domeric had ridden for the Dreadfort four days before. He and Domeric had been inseparable for near ten years, but with Robb nearing six and ten Roose Bolton's charge as caretaker had ended and so the Lord Bolton sent Robb back home, as was tradition. There was no Stark without Bolton in Robb and Domeric's case, but it seemed there had to be for the time being. In response Robb had near barricaded himself in Winterfell's library, speaking hardly a word to anyone save Maester Luwin, and his grey friend. It was only when a servant brought him word of the King's forthcoming visit and, on a more somber note, the death of his father's mentor Jon Arryn, that Robb steeled himself to end his self-imposed isolation.

He found Jon in one of the young Snow's rare moments alone with Bran; teaching him to be a better archer. He arrived in time to see an arrow bury itself in one of the outer rings and to hear Bran muttering a curse in frustration.

"Don't let it get to you," Jon instructed from his position nearby. The raven-haired youth was leaning casually against a nearby wall, arms crossed as he shook his head at Bran. "The bow takes a sharp mind and a deft hand, and being angry helps with neither. You have to work on keeping your aim steady." The Bran of two years ago would have just nodded, but not listened, yet when the second son let his second arrow fly it hit noticeably closer to the center ring, making Bran smile in satisfaction.

"There might be hope for you yet," Robb joked, announcing his presence to the practicing duo. "A couple of years from now Theon will be green with envy."

Jon grinned; Theon took pride in his abilities with the bow. Losing to someone near eleven years his junior would devastate his ego.

"We'll keep at it, then," Jon assured him, nudging Bran's shoulder. Robb nodded and spoke with the two about Bran's progress for a few minutes before asking Jon if they could speak in private. The two brothers left Bran to practice on his own and found a quiet spot to talk where Robb meticulously laid out his objections to Jon riding north to the Wall.

"You're my brother, Jon. You and any family of yours will always have a place at Winterfell. I know that you and mother are not..." he searched for an appropriate word. "...close, but you are a good sword and an even better friend. I would not lose you to grumkins and snarks beyond the Wall if I can avoid it."

Jon listened to his ramblings silently, wearing that serious expression of his, but at the end of it he simply asked for some time alone to think and strode off without another word, leaving Robb to contemplate another four-day stint in the library.

8

8

In the few days before the King's visit Robb tried to make up for his four days of sulking by spending as much time with his family as possible. His father and mother were both busy preparing for the King's visit, but his siblings were only too happy to spend time with him. He brought his wolf along to play with Rickon and Shaggydog. He spoke with Sansa about the King's upcoming visit and shared with her what he had read about King's Landing. He took long walks on the castle walls with Arya when she should have been at her lessons, and he sparred with Theon and Jon, both of whom bested him nine times out of ten. Robb tried to raise the topic of the Night's Watch with Jon multiple times, but was refused, the last time by Theon who told him to give Jon time to think. Robb understood Jon's reservations, truly, but he would be wasted on the Night's Watch. Jon was a good jouster and an even better swordsman. He was loyal, compassionate and a quick learner to boot. If Robb had his way Jon would become a valued advisor and rule a holdfast just as large as Bran's or Rickon's once he was Lord of Winterfell. It was one of he and his father's many disagreements that no request had been sent to King's Landing that Jon might be legitimized and made a true Stark of Winterfell. That Jon thought a lifetime of celibacy and pointless rangings desirable was a sign of unambitiousness, certainly, but also of how undervalued Jon's potential was by the people of Winterfell. Theon, however, was not known for giving out advice lightly, and so Robb swallowed his protests and spent his energy on becoming a part of the strong friendship Snow and Greyjoy shared.

8

8

The day of the King's visit saw the Stark Clan - minus Jon, as Lady Stark had insisted - lined up in the main courtyard beneath a dull grey sky. The Lord Stark was front and center, flanked on his left by his lady wife and on his right by Robb. Beside Robb stood Bran and Rickon, and on the other side, on his mother's left, was Sansa and Arya. Behind them stood a large group of servants, guardsmen and other notables like Jon and Theon. Arya was a late addition, having arrived just in time to get a brief scolding from her mother before the first man of the royal retinue rode through the castle gates. Three hundred men, most clad in polished steel and many brandishing the golden banners of House Baratheon, poured into the open courtyard with vigor, filling the cold Northern air with the rattling sounds of heavy armor and the whinnying of horses. Robb recognized the infamous Kingslayer Jamie Lannister, the young Crown Prince, and a stunted form that could only be Tyrion Lannister, the Imp, among the men. The King himself rode beside beside his son on a giant of a warhorse, clad in furs and looking grim from the long journey, but his face lit up when he saw his childhood friend. He was the first to dismount, sliding off the back of his mount to give Ned Stark what looked like a painfully tight hug to Robb, who shifted sideways ever so slightly to accommodate the man's heavy frame.

"Ned!" Robert Baratheon, the First of His Name, greeted his friend boisterously. "Ah, but it is good to see that frozen face of yours." The King looked the Warden of the North over from top to bottom and laughed jovially. "You have not changed at all!"

Rubb ruthlessly squashed the urge to smile at that. Even if the stories his father had told him about the Rebellion were only half-truths the King was still a far cry from the fearsome warrior he had once been. He still stood near a foot taller than most men, as Eddard Stark had often recalled fondly, but the leisures of King's Landing had allowed the man's stomach to catch up. Robb had imagined Robert to be a Maekar Targaryen of Storm's End, but all he saw was a black-haired version of how he expected Viserys I had once looked.

"Your Grace," his father replied, slightly winded from the hug and visibly trying to avoid the topic of change. "Winterfell is yours."

By then much of the King's party had dismounted as well; grooms were approaching to care for their horses, and servants were showing lesser knights and guardsmen to their quarters. King Robert did not seem to mind the ruckus and moved on to greet the Lady Stark undeterred, embracing her in an almost brotherly hug. He said something, but Robb did not hear the words as his focus was drawn to the forms descending the gilded, double-decked carriage that been forced to a halt outside East Gate on account of being too large to pass through. Prince Tommen was the first to exit the carriage, the plump little lad eagerly jumping from the carriage step straight into a nearby puddle of rainwater. Maids fussed over him, but the young Prince looked unconcerned until he made eye contact with Robb, then a shy look overtook him and he lowered his head. Princess Mycella appeared next and descended with a grace that defied her eight years. Her hair was spun cloth-of-gold like her brothers', but her features were even finer. Her mother, the Queen, stepped out behind her and Robb was struck by how similar mother and daughter looked. It was clear that Mycella had inherited her looks entirely from the Queen. Cersei herself looked more beautiful than any of the tales Robb had heard of her gave her credit for. His own mother was near the Queen's age, if he remembered correctly, but there was a vitality and authority about Cersei that set her apart from Lady Stark.

The three Baratheons of King's Landing approached the Starks and the King, and were joined on the way by Crown Prince Joffrey who looked unfairly handsome for his twelve years. Robb himself had his mother's fine, if soft Tully traits, but his eyes were like those of a dead fish if Theon was to be believed. Those very eyes stole brief glances at the Queen's supple figure until she noticed him and raised a perfect, questioning eyebrow. She looked more amused than indignant, but Robb still blushed scarlet and lowered his gaze as Tommen had, cursing himself and feeling every inch a scolded child.

King Robert presented his family to the Starks and Lord Stark reciprocated the gesture. Greetings were exchanged, formalities were observed, and then the King asked his host to take him to the crypts. Robb did a double take at that and blinked owlishly; it seemed inordinately inappropriate to the oldest Stark child that the King's first order of business should be to visit the tomb of his long-dead betrothed. Even his mother looked taken aback by Robert's brash request, though she did not voice her doubts. The Queen, however, did.

"We've been riding for a month, my love," she said with a tight smile. "Surely the dead can wait."

That the King did not even spare her a word of reassurance before he and Robb's father - the only man who looked happy about his friend's request besides Robert himself - made for the crypts spoke volumes about their relationship. Robb did not miss Cercei's brief frown, nor Joffrey's sour expression, though the latter was visible to anyone with eyes to see. There was a pregnant pause after the two men had left, but the Queen quickly recovered and struck up polite conversation with Robb's mother for a few moments before requesting that she be shown to her quarters. Everyone slowly began to disperse then, but Robb quickly stepped in front of Prince Joffrey before the boy could follow his mother into the castle proper.

"My Prince," Robb greeted with a polite bow, sparing the huge, scarred sworn sword who followed Joffrey like a shadow a brief look. "I had hoped that we might speak before you retire. I know the ride from the Neck is long and harsh, but still I thought we could share a few words."

Joffrey tilted his head slightly as he appraised him. "Lord Robb Stark," he greeted courteously after a moment, evidently finding Robb worthy of his time. "It is good to to meet you. Your House's hospitality is greatly appreciated."

Robb thanked him and they shared a few more formal pleasantries. Joffrey's manners were impeccable and despite himself Robb felt clumsy by comparison. That the Crown Prince was not _really_ so greatly appreciative of the cold North's hospitality was implicitly understood, but beyond the slight flicker of annoyance that grew in Joffrey's eyes as the formalities stretched out the Crown Prince's mask was flawless. Robb was truly impressed.

"Pleasantries aside, I had hoped to get to know you better, Prince Joffrey. Our fathers grew up in the Vale together and fought side by side in the Rebellion. We don't share history, but that doesn't mean we can't be friends." Robb extended his hand toward Joffrey and offered him a cautious smile. "You can just call me Robb, for starters."

The gesture caught the Prince off guard, but he quickly regained his composure and shook Robb's hand firmly, if briefly. "Of course," he hesitated for just the briefest of moments, but Robb still caught it. "..Robb. I am sure that we will get along well. There will be plenty of time for us to speak in the coming days."

Robb very nearly smiled at the unspoken dismissal. "Of course, my Prince. Please, the servants will show you to your quarters." Joffrey gave his thanks and eagerly made for the castle, but before he could take two steps Robb spoke again.

"Ah, Prince Joffrey? Would you care to join me for a tour before the feast? I am sure you are eager to see the rest of Winterfell."

By then Joffrey was much more eager to be rid of him than to tour Winterfell, but decorum required him to respond and a refusal would take much longer than a simple 'aye.'

The Prince turned and offered Robb a smile that looked far too sincere to be so. "Of course, _Robb_ , it would be my pleasure."

And that was that.

8

"You should give up on waiting and go find your mother, Stark," Jon advised his friend with just a hint of a smile. The two young adults were the only people in the bustling courtyard who were not busy making last minute preparations for the feast: servants passed them by on their way to the great hall and men-at-arms were arranging a long line of torches before the heavy double doors. Robb had been waiting there in the cold for far too long to still be impressed by the Crown Prince, and in his irritation he scowled at Jon who merely shrugged in response.

"You've only just gotten here, Snow. I'm not taking any advice of yours on this."

Despite his words Robb was on the verge of throwing courtesy to the wind and seeking refuge in the warm confines of the great hall. It was not long until the feast, Robb thought in annoyance. He would not have time to speak with Joffrey for more than a few minutes before the royal family and the Starks were supposed to make their entrance. That the Crown Prince was keeping him waiting as a form of petty revenge was not lost on Robb and though he refused to throw a tantrum over such a harmless act he did feel rather embarrassingly duped by a boy three years his junior.

"Words are wind, Robb," Jon offered again. "What did you have to say to him that you can't say at the feast anyway?"

A good question, one that Robb had been pondering since he asked the Prince to meet with him. He knew _what_ he wanted to say, but the _how_ of it was a tougher nut to crack.

Any reply from Robb was interrupted by the expected, if long overdue arrival of Crown Prince Joffrey and an unexpected addition in the form of his sworn sword, Sandor Clegane. The blond Prince was dressed in a doublet even finer than Robb's own and all that he lacked in stature the Hound more than made up for, even if he no longer wore his signature great helm. To his embarrassment Robb found himself briefly stumped, gobsmacked by just how menacing the man looked looming behind Joffrey.

"Robb," the Prince greeted him pointedly, putting careful emphasis on the name. "I hope you have not been waiting for long."

Jon chortled, but then quickly excused himself, tight-lipped, after receiving a withering glare from the Prince. Robb had not been there to hear it, but Theon had confided to him that Lady Stark had given Jon a stern talking to about proper manners in the presence of royalty, and for all his stubborn pride Jon was surprisingly malleable when it came to his stepmother's whims.

"Look," Robb began, trying his hardest to avoid looking at the imposing form behind Joffrey. "I wasn't trying to string you along earlier, I really meant what I said. There's a good chance that our Houses will be joined in marriage soon and even if they aren't I would still like to get to know you. You will be King one day and I the Warden of near half of your kingdom. Would it not be better if we knew each other, if not as friends, then at least as men with the same goal?"

"And what might that goal be?" Joffrey asked sharply.

"The good of the people, of course."

The Crown Prince's delicate face curled in disgust´. "You speak of things you know nothing about. A King commands and his people obey. They are beneath him."

"What is good for the people is good for the King. In serving them he serves himself."

"You are a Stark of Winterfell, not of King's Landing. What would you know about what serves a King?"

Joffrey's outburst brought a frown to Robb's forehead. He wanted to tell the twelve-year-old exactly what he knew about Kings and what served them, but swallowed the rebuke with a long breath. Arguing would get them nowhere.

"Mayhaps I spoke out of turn," he acquiesced. "I meant no offense, Joffrey."

The Crown Prince frowned at the lack of honorific, but said nothing. Robb decided to take that as a good sign, all things considered.

"Listen, I just want to sit down with you at the feast and talk. No formalities, just you and me talking."

Joffrey hesitated. "There will be seating arrangements."

"I'll bring my own seat," Robb pressed. He could see the different emotions crossing the Prince's face as he thought it over. There really was no reason not to accept; all Joffrey would have to do was feign ignorance when the time came, then Robb would have been the instigator of quite an embarrassing social faux pas.

"Deal."

Robb nearly sighed with relief before the Hound suddenly spoke.

"Are we done here, then? 'Cause I'm freezing my fucking balls off."


	3. Chapter 3

Feasts among the highborn were complex affairs, especially welcoming feasts for the King of all Westeros. Robb's mother had worn an almost permanent frown for days before the royals' arrival while she decided on seating arrangements, dishes and decorations. Robb did not much care for the maze-like web of etiquette and tradition that his mother had been obliged to navigate, but even he could appreciate the result. Banners of white, gold and crimson covered the walls and roaring fires illuminated the direwolf, the stag and the lion all.

The high nobles entered the great hall in a long procession; Lord Stark entered first with the Queen on his arm and King Robert followed with Lady Stark on his. Afterwards came the Stark and royal children, Rickon and Bran first followed by Robb and Mycella, Tommen and Arya, and finally Joffrey and Sansa. The long-winded entrance did not much bother Robb, but he wished he had gotten a good look at the Lannister brothers who followed behind them in the procession. As much as he hated the thought of appearing toady Robb could not deny a deep-seated interest in the two. The Kingslayer and the Imp, the former who slew the last Targaryen monarch, to whom he had sworn his sword, and the latter a dwarf son of one of the great houses of Westeros. Lastly came Robb's uncle Benjen, newly-arrived from the Wall, and Theon, who discreetly joined Jon among the younger squires. Very little was said until every high lord and lady had been seated and it was only after his father and King Robert had exchanged the customary toasts, thanks and greetings that the feast began in earnest.

To most Robb's promise to bring his own seat to speak with Joffrey would not seem so brazen, but seating arrangements among the nobility were extremely deliberate. Your assigned seat reflected your social standing, among many other things. Moving your seat was simply not done; it reflected a flippant disrespect for the established order. Had Robb not known enough about King Robert to be certain that the man could care less he would not have dared.

The two heirs apparent were seated at the same table, across from each other, with uncle Benjen and Tyrion, and the Queen's twin brother respectively seated beside them. The rest of the Stark and Baratheon children were seated at a nearby table further down to, as far as Robb could pick up from her flushed whispers to Jeyne Poole, Sansa's great shame. Contend to put off his stunt until at least a few guests were in their cups Robb settled down to enjoy some honeyed chicken and roasted potatoes while listening to the low murmur of a hundred, soon to be drunken, conversations.

King Robert did not take long to oblige him. After his initial disappointment Robb had decided to withhold judgement on his namesake until he had gotten a chance to speak with the man. Yet the King's total disregard for everything that was not Ned Stark, strong drink or that comely serving wench whose name escaped Robb left him feeling more than a little gloomy. The more he observed the good King Robert the less he saw Viserys I; instead he saw a new Aegon the Unworthy, perhaps less corrupted, but equally disinterested in the good of the land. Not for the first time that night Robb wished that his direwolf was allowed in the hall. Of the litter of pups only Ghost was to be found inside, but Robb was only too keenly aware of the reasoning behind that to envy Jon his small victory.

His discontent must have unwittingly shown on his face as Lord Stark saw fit to put a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"Are you well, Robb? You look a little green."

King Robert laughed uproariously at that, spilling near half of his wine before turning his attention to Robb for the first time that night.

"Northman or not the lad's a greenlander like the rest of us, eh?"

Something about the way he said it made Robb grind his teeth, a reaction that immediately saw the King's jovial manner evaporate like water under the Dornish sun.

"My apologies, Your Grace," Robb said, voice carefully neutral. "A good friend of mine left for the Dreadfort not long since. Mayhaps I'm still a bit miffed. I hope you won't let it affect your good mood… Your Grace." He added the honorific a second time to be on the safe side. A polite white lie was better than just a white lie.

Robert harrumphed, sounding both annoyed and amused. "Cold weather makes colder men, they say. I suppose Ned's brood is no exception to that, even if you look more Tully than Stark."

Robb's expression did not change, but under the tabletop he clenched his fist. He stole a glance at his father's face, but was not surprised when he saw no hint of anger in his eyes. Lord Stark had always insisted that there was no shame in having copper-brown hair as a Stark, and that the whispers calling Robb and his siblings 'summer children' were just smallfolk gossiping as smallfolk were wont to do. Yet the North was the North, not the South. Parents like Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully did not send off their sons as fosterling for the sake of it. Robert's Rebellion took near three hundred years of Targaryen rule and relative stability, and burned it to the ground. No matter his intentions the so-called Demon of the Trident had replaced Aegon's foreign dynasty with a native one and thus shaken the very foundation of the Iron Throne. The Conqueror had forged out of seven warring kingdoms a throne _by_ Targaryens _for_ Targaryens. Continuity was a blessed thing in Robb's view, and Robert had shattered all that for love. Now everything was up for grabs. _That_ was why Lord Stark had sent his sons to be fostered by his sworn vassals.

Perhaps if there had been no whispers, if he had been born with grey eyes and dark hair during a blizzard there would have been no need.

But Robb had chestnut hair and blue eyes, and so the Lords of the North had grumbled, about the new King, about old grudges, about their liege lord's Tully bride. To quell their grumblings Lord Stark had made concessions. Those promises had brought Robb a friend like Domeric, but they had also reduced his family and ancestral home to a minimal part of his life for the better part of ten years.

Robb's train of thoughts had only lasted a few moments, but it was enough of a pause that the Queen decided to pick up the conversation. Her smooth voice snapped him back to the present.

"I hear you have a few choice words to say about ruling. How uncommon for a boy so young."

It was not exactly a jape, but Robb felt the edge of her words nonetheless. Had he been Jon he might have insisted that he was _not_ a boy, thank you, but a man grown. Robb, however, had enough foresight to know that a barrage of patronizing looks would follow an outburst like that. He wondered briefly who had told the Queen about his conversation with Joffrey, but then decided that it did not matter.

"Ser Jaime was raised to the Kingsguard at my age. If he could fill such a prestigious post then, me having a few ideas about governing does not seem so far fetched, does it?"

"You compare yourself to my brother, then?" The Queen was most certainly trying to trip him up, Robb decided. The realization should have angered him, but instead he felt what he recognized as a boyish crush on the Lioness stir. She was sharp, she was beautiful. Why King Robert did not seem to appreciate his Queen mystified him. Robb once again found his gaze seeking downwards and this time the Queen craned her neck just an inch in a discreet, but deliberate motion that exposed enough of her pearly white skin to make the young Stark heir blush scarlet. Oh yes, the Queen was undoubtedly playing with him.

"I…" Robb stammered, face still flush. His father must have thought him embarrassed, for he quickly spoke up in his defense.

"Robb was not trying to diminish Ser Jaime's accomplishments, I am sure."

"Robb is well-read," his mother quipped then, defensively. "He speaks with our Maester Ludwin often about everything from language to masonry. Ideas come to him like size to an Umber."

The Queen smiled graciously and opened her mouth to speak, but her youngest brother cut her off before she could.

"So what exactly were those choice words, then?" Tyron looked genuinely interested, which encouraged Robb to share his honest thoughts despite the company.

"I wasn't talking about ruling per se," he began hesitantly. "The point I was trying to make was that lords and kings should know each other, if not as friends then as honorable relations. Too much conflict is caused by men who don't know each other envying the others' lands, or gold, or whatever a man might lust for."

"Of the men I've killed there were some who were known to me," Ser Jaime interjected, looking bored by the conversation at hand. "I killed them nonetheless."

King Robert snorted with laughter. "Ha! The Kingslayer makes a good point there, lad. For once."

Robb glanced at Jaime, but the man looked unaffected by the jape.

"The Gods know there are things words can't solve, but I think they're few and far between. Men who know each other can speak more freely. Solve problems together peacefully." Tyrion was looking at him intensely, which only spurred Robb on. "I can't speak for everyone, but I would rather not war with the people I know. I might not always like them, but I know they're people with hopes and dreams, who usually want only the best for their family and peoples." Robb leaned back into his comfortable chair, acutely aware of the look his father was sending him. "I think much of the land's misery and conflict could be avoided if we would all just sit down and discuss the issues."

"Words are wind," came uncle Benjen's gravelly voice, startling Robb. The man had said very little since they had been seated. "Some men can't be reasoned with. If you sit down with Wildlings you're like to never get up again." Most of the people at the table nodded sagely in agreement. Joffrey aped the gesture.

"You can't reason with barbarians," he supplied dismissively.

Eight thousand years in the Land of Always Winter will do that to a people, Robb thought, but saying such things would only make everyone think him naive, if they did not so already.

"Many Southrons thought of us Northmen as barbarians," he said instead. "Some still do. Yet we are simply men, just as you. If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? The same blood flows in our veins, Dornish or Northman. We even speak the same language. How can we not speak together?"

"Mayhaps we should raze the Wall, then?" King Robert said, annoyance having overtaken his amusement. "Your counsel would have us prattle until every woman's been carried off and every man and child slain like mongrels."

Lord Stark intervened on his son's behalf before Robb could answer.

"This is too grim a topic for a welcoming feast. Let's not speak of it any longer.

His friend's words softened King Robert's hard expression and he nodded happily, lifting his goblet.

"Aye, I grow weary of such talks. Let's enjoy some Northern hospitality instead!"

Few of the men in the great hall had paid much attention to the conversation at the high table, but many greeted the King's words with cheers, raising their own cups in varying degrees of drunkenness. Robb grimaced instead, but kept his silence in favor of brooding. How could the King just dismiss him like that? He was no expert in the customs of the Free Folk, but Robb had spent many sleepless nights in the Dreadfort's modest library reading about, among other things, the Wall and the lands North of it. Beyond corresponding with his family most of the ravens he had sent for Winterfell were requests for heavy volumes and tomes to be sent to him. The Stark Heir was no Archmaester, but he was a learned man; more so than the 'venerable' King Robert Baratheon gave him credit for. Books were no substitute for experience, but for lack of a guide who would lead him beyond the Wall Robb had settled for Maester Wyllis' account of his three years in Hardhome, among other works. He was willing to bet an arm and a leg that Robert had not even seen a drawing of the Wall, much less looked at or walked upon the real thing. Robb looked at the man who was supposed to be the Protector of the Realm and felt bitterly disappointed.

"Don't mind Robert, Robb," came the soft voice of his father, startling Robb back to attention. "He is brash, stubborn even, but a good man at heart." The Lord Paramount of the North leaned closer to his son, a small smile playing his lips. "As fat as he's become there's bound to be at least a little good in him. If it was all bad he would be near an Other by now."

The jest was good-natured, if hardly a work of art, but Robb appreciated it for what it was. Lord Stark and his heir disagreed about almost everything under the sun, but they were still father and son. Ned would not disrespect his friend and King to heal Robb's wounded pride, but that did not mean that he had not noticed it. Humor did not come easily to Eddard Stark, and Robb appreciated the effort.

"He must've forgotten his goodness in his goblet, then, and can't understand why it won't wash down with the wine." Robb whispered back, a small smile to match his father's.

"Gods have mercy, Robb. He's your King. Some lines you simply do not cross."

The reprimand evaporated both their smiles and Robb leaned back into his chair, arms crossed defiantly.

Lines. Robb nearly growled. Fuck 'em.

8

The Starks of Winterfell did not possess the bounty of the Reach nor the gold of the Westerlands, but they were no pauper lords and so the drinks flowed freely that night. The noise level in the great hall gradually rose as Southrons and Northmen all drank their fill and struck up friendly games as well as conversation. Jon and Theon had somehow cleared a space on one of the longtables where Jon was making Ghost do tricks and feeding him scraps of chicken as a reward, to the delight of many drunken spectators. At the children's table an excited Rickon was regaling a happy-looking Prince Tommen with reports that were undoubtedly greatly exaggerated. Sansa was talking to Myrcella and still shooting the odd, envious look in Robb's direction.

The high table was relatively quiet by comparison. Only King Robert stood out; his voice growing louder and his cheeks redder with every goblet of wine he emptied. He was talking to a decidedly more sober Eddard about some adventure of their youth. Robb paid the duo no mind, opting instead to stealthily watch the Queen under the guise of studying the hearth behind her. Not the most convincing act, he knew, but after having a few cups of ale himself Robb found he cared very little about such things. The Queen was speaking to Robb's mother, a gracious smile on her lips. He could not hear her words, but perhaps if he leaned forwards just a little…

"You're staring, Robb. Father says that's rude."

Robb had not noticed Arya sneaking up behind him and cursed in surprise, making the younger Stark girl smirk.

"Go away, Arya," he told her, more embarrassed than angry. "Weren't you dragging Bran around? Go do that."

"The stupid Karstarks have made him more boring than Sansa," she replied with a frown. "He didn't want to pick on Sansa, didn't want to sneak into the kitchens. He wouldn't even climb the inner walls with me, even when I told him he could decide where." She rested her head against his chair's back, a pouty look on her face. "Jon's busy with Theon again and father's talking to his royal Kingness." Robb made a face, but Arya ignored it. "I'm booored, Robb."

He was saved from having to entertain the most unruly of his two sisters by his mother, who excused herself from her conversation with Queen Cersei to order her youngest children to bed. The Queen followed her example and soon the children's table was vacated and the little ones taken to their respective chambers by a group of servants and, in the case of her own children, Lady Stark herself. Only Sansa was allowed to remain and she was even invited to sit at the high table by the King himself. He first ordered a seat to be pulled up between the Crown Prince and Ser Jaime, but then had a change of heart and simply ordered the man back on duty, thus freeing up his seat. Once again Ser Jaime did not react visibly to the slight, but the mood around the high table was tense as Sansa sat down, looking mortified by the King's actions. Even Lord Stark seemed miffed by his friend's actions, but as Robb had expected he said nothing.

The picture of his embarrassed sister seated beside a, by then, barely civil Prince Joffrey was what spurred Robb to act on his words. Thus, after downing the contents of his mug in search of some liquid courage he quickly stood up, picked up his chair and made his way to the other side of the curved longtable. He passed behind his father and King Robert on the way, earning himself a silent, but unquestionably disapproving look from Lord Stark. King Robert, deep in his cups as he was, hardly seemed to notice him.

Robb was not a godly man, but as he quietly positioned his chair between the Lady Baratheon and her oldest son he thanked the Old Gods and the New for Joffrey's perceptible, if curt, nod of acknowledgement and, more importantly, his mother's temporary absence. He tried his utmost to keep his attention on the Crown Prince, but before he had even asked their leave to be seated he felt his eyes being pulled towards the Queen's slender form. She was obviously not impressed with him, that much was obvious from their talk earlier that evening, but Robb hoped that his mother not being present would allow him to seem confident and courteous to mother and son both. Catelyn Tully was a loving mother who doted on her children, but to her Robb was still a bubbling child days out of his swaddle. If he wanted to play the part of the next Warden of the North he had to play it alone.

"Your Grace, my Prince," he greeted the pair with a slight bow, missing Domeric's calming presence and trying his best to hide the sweat he felt appearing in his palms. "Mayhaps I could be seated here? My father and his Grace are reconnecting, and Lord Tyrion excused himself some time ago." The youngest of the Lannister siblings had not spoken a word to Robb since his tirade about ruling. He had, however, matched the King nearly drink for drink and then excused himself soon after the the final course had been taken away by the servants.

The Queen raised a perfect, questioning eyebrow at him as she had done once before. She seemed ready to protest, but to Robb's surprise Joffrey spoke up.

"You did bring a seat of your own, after all," he said with only the barest hint of mockery. "I am sure Lady Sansa would be delighted to have her brother near."

Sansa, for her part, looked at Robb as if he had spontaneously transformed into a dragon right before her very eyes. Yet even so she still managed to mumble a polite courtesy as Robb took his seat.

"You seem to have gained my son's favor. How curious," the Queen mused aloud before Robb had the chance to thank them.

"Lor- _Robb_ and I were simply getting acquainted, mother. It's hardly so curious." Robb suspected that Joffrey's defense of him was more of a small rebellion against the Lady Cersei for his own sake rather than anything else. Still, it was refreshing to see that, beneath the polite exterior and the angry shell underneath it, the Crown Prince was just a boy trying to spread his wings. Robb could relate to that struggle.

"Of course it isn't, my love" Cersei assured her son kindly before turning to Robb, eyes narrowed. "My son is a wilful young man, and strong. He needs loyal subjects more than anything else. Will you be one such, I wonder?"

With the King's loud and boisterous voice masking their quiet conversation the Queen's voice was like steel, a far cry from her courteous disposition earlier that evening. Robb understood why she would question his motives. There were a great many knights and lordlings in the Seven Kingdoms who would give an arm and a leg to enjoy royal patronage, or to court royal goodwill. The Crown Prince's friendship would be a powerful political asset for any lord and it was not unheard of for one to send a son to curry royal favor. A prince who could be a friend in need was a powerful friend indeed.

"I am not here to rub shoulders with royalty, Your Grace," Robb assured her carefully, then quickly turned to Joffrey. "I'm really not. I meant what I said before. I don't know that are you anything like your father. I know that I am nothing like my own. We are our own, Joffrey, and I think we need friends in this life."

Sansa had gone beet red in the face over the course of his explanation. Revealing that you thought yourself nothing like your sire was fairly personal information. It was talk ill-suited for a formal setting.

"We are just chil-" Robb bit his tongue, feeling the Queen smirk lightly behind his back. He did not like it himself when his mother or father treated him like a child. Joffrey would not appreciate the mark either, he wagered. " We are just young men and we need friends. Will I be a loyal subject?" He spared a look towards the Queen who wore an indistinguishable look on her face. "As is my duty, but moreover I should like you to have my friendship, and I yours, as our fathers' have each others'."

Joffrey's expression had gradually morphed into one of surprise and though he wore it well Robb saw a hint of uncertainty in his bright, green eyes.

He was saved from having to answer by the return of Lady Stark. Sansa immediately excused herself meekly and near ran over to speak in hushed tones with her mother who turned to give Robb a dark, disapproving look.

"I had heard that you were a naïve child," Cersei Baratheon muttered beside him, just loudly enough for only him to hear over the many sounds of the feast. "Yet now I find myself questioning whether that was accurate, or if you are a shrewd little boy."

Robb would have flinched had he been listening, but he was busy smiling at Joffrey who, for once, smiled back earnestly.


End file.
